Doubled Edge 4b/10

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Doubled Edge by Katt Solano
Disclaimers & further hopla in part 0
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
En route to Glenfinnan, Scotland...

As he eased the Jeep around the ruts and boulders on the road, Duncan snuck
quick looks at his companion. Methos was lost in his laptop, merrily subdued
as he studied several windows at the same time.

"What are you doing?" Duncan had asked when the final leg of the trip began.

"Searching my memory banks," Methos replied.

Even though he wanted to ask which memory bank the older man had been
talking about-- those in his computer or that in his head-- he looked so
absorbed that Duncan hadn't bothered him again.

They pulled into the tiny town of Glenfinnan in a quaint bed and breakfast
that was booming with customers. Kala and her associates pulled into a
nearby parking space and were on their way over before Methos finally
uprooted his eyes from the computer screen.

"Is this establishment of any importance?" Cerny asked.

Disliking the Ichor Born's tone, Duncan snapped, "Yeah, it's where we eat. I
don't know about you but those of us who don't have gods' blood flowing
through out veins get hungry once in a while."

"This is a waste--" Cerny began but Kala held him off.

"Very well then," she said, "We will... tour the area while you eat. Come."
She gestured to her companions. Devaki gave the two immortals a brief smile
but Cerny simply whirled around and stalked after his leader.

"His face would have given me indigestion anyway," said Methos as he headed
towards a pub.

It was a _real_ pub, not one of those types that were made too Celtic or too
"Scottish" for the enjoyment of the tourists. The lighting was bright enough
to see by but not glaring and the pleasant scent of food, hops, and tobacco
lingered in the air. Duncan and Methos both took in the place with pleasure.

"So this is your old neighbourhood," Methos said after they had slid into a
back table and given their orders, "I didn't do anything more than spin my
head around the first time I came here."

"Aye, though Connor sees more o' it that I do." Going back to his roots had
loosened Duncan's brogue, blending his voice with the other Scots. "He loves
this place."

"Well, with a population of less than a hundred, it's pretty safe to say
that he never had any surprises from the Jones' down the street. Thank you,
love," he said to the waitress who had plunked down two dark, frothy brews.

"Yuirs meals'll be comin' in a bit," she said, "an' none tae soon, by the
look o' ye. Dinna ye eat in England?" she asked Duncan.

"Ach, aye," said Duncan, wrinkling his nose into an expressive sneer, "if ye
call whit they tuck in tae every night food. Naught tha' stick tae yuir
stomach."

She laughed. "Then I'm verra glad I havna ever moved."

As she turned away to see to another customer, Methos smirked and said,
"That accent was so thick I'm amazed you didn't choke on it."

Duncan toasted him. "Aye, weel, there's naught like a guid brew tae bring
the best o' me." And he took a heavy draught of the lager. "Damn!"

Methos watched the contentment wash over his friend with amusement and, he
allowed himself to admit, relief. "If I had known that bringing you here
would snap you out of your blue funk, I'd've done it months. You were
starting to make my spider plant suicidal." He sipped his own mug, smacking
his lips in pleasure. "Of course, only you and that mad idiot you call your
kinsman would react like that. Where's his house?"

"Just west of town."

"MacLeod, that's encompasses any place five minutes' walk from this pub."

"If yuir done insulting the place of my birth," Duncan said with a
half-hearted snarl.

"Actually--"

Duncan interrupted before any more precious gems could come from Methos'
mouth. "I'd like to know if you came up with anything along the drive up."

"A few," answered Methos. They waited for their dishes to be served and for
Methos to take a first taste. "I actually had more to do with the Pearl than
I initially remembered."

*  *  *  *  *

834 A.D.
West of Tunisia, Morocco...

The man once known as Methos sat cross-legged in the back of the small room.
The seeds that Faruq wanted were hard to grind; he'd been at it since dawn
and they still hadn't reached the powdery consistency that the doctor
wanted. The afternoon sun leeched into the chamber, making rivulets of sweat
slide down his back as the strong scent of the seeds tickled his nose.

Faruq looked up from his texts, eyes narrowed, ears hearkening for the
whispered sound that he'd heard moments ago. "Prepare some bandages and
salves," he said to his apprentice, "We will have patients soon."

"At once, sir." Methos bowed and hurried to the back room. He had just
gathered the long strips of linen when the front room burst into cacophony.
He re-entered the main room to find the largest man he'd ever seen occupying
most of the room. He was black as midnight and tall enough that he had keep
his shoulders bent in order to stand in the room. Through his cloths, Methos
could see the giant's bulging muscles. His hands, each the size of a healthy
lamb, carried a bloodied bundle of ruined armour and torn cloth that perhaps
once was a man. Two others trailed behind the giant, studying the room with
expressionless eyes. The shorter one strode to the opposite end of the room
and settled there, his eyes still wandering. The tall one stayed close to
the giant.

"Put him here," said Faruq, gesturing to the examination table. The doctor
then glared at Methos. "Don't just stand there, boy; bring me those vials!"

Methos hurried to Faruq's side.

"Axe to the thigh," said one of the giant's companions. To Methos' surprise,
it was a female; tall as a man, dressed like a man but with a face and a
voice far too delicate to be male.

Faruq, absorbed in his patient, didn't note the difference. He pulled back
the injured one's robes to reveal a thick bandage soaked in crimson. More
blood tracked down the man's leg. He whimpered as the doctor nudged the
bandage. "It looks as if the axe cut an artery."

"Yes," said the woman, "We tried to cut the blood flow with a--" she said a
word that Methos didn't understand "--but we did not have the equipment to
doctor it properly."

At his master's command, Methos handed over a pair of shears. Layer by
layer, the blood-caked linen was removed. The black giant stood at opposite
of Faruq, holding down his companion's body to prevent him from jerking. The
woman stood at his head, murmuring in a foreign tongue in a smooth chant.
Interestingly, it seemed to work. The patient's stiffness eased slightly and
he seemed to feel much less pain than the situation warranted.

The surgery lasted for another hour as Faruq painstakingly removed any
debris from the patient's flesh, poured a cleansing solution into the flesh
to prevent evil from entering before the skin healed, and stitched the gap
closed. He left Methos to massage a balm to hasten the healing process and
wrap the final bandage; other customers had come into the clinic.

"How came he to be injured?" he asked.

"A skirmish," the woman answered curtly. And for the first time, Methos
realised that she, too, was coloured by battle, her clothing ragged and
stained with a rusty-brown that was all too familiar. The giant was also
marked with a bandage around his forearm. The silent man had walked with a
limp.

"Keep it dry," Methos said when he finished dressing the wound, "And do not
let him use the leg for at least se'nnight."

The woman bowed. "Thank you." She shrugged off a bundle of rags from her
back; Methos realised it was a sack with two straps fixed on it so that it
could be carried while still leaving the hands free. Cunning. As she untied
the strap, the silent one jerked from his place, his hand going to his waist
for his weapon. The woman straightened quick as lightening, looking over her
shoulder. A dagger appeared in her hand. She whispered to the giant with her
foreign tongue and followed the silent man outside. The giant changed his
position slightly; he positioned himself between the entrance and his
unconscious companion. The sword he took out from under his robes was easily
as long as Methos was tall.

They conversed, again in a strange language that Methos was familiar with.
The pale woman and the silent one left the building. Neither one had drawn a
weapon, strange for experienced warriors who knew they were about to enter
battle. But it was not his business to intrude. Methos quietly cleaned up,
gathering the old dressings, bowls, and vials. He nearly tripped over the
sack. Strange; warmth emanated from it and he swore he heard the muted
buzzing of a bee when he drew closer.

Sneaking a sidelong look at the giant to make sure his attention was still
diverted, Methos drew the edges of the leather bag open. The bowels of the
bag were black as though light could not pierce the thin leather but he
could see the gentle, pearly curve of a pale sphere. The warmth intensified,
as did the buzzing. He reached in...

...and nearly had his hand cut off. The giant's enormous scimitar cut
through the sleeve of Methos' robe, pinning his arm to the ground. With a
quick twist of his wrist, he closed and lifted the sack onto his own
shoulder.

"Do not meddle in our business, little apprentice," said the giant, his
voice as thunderous as a god's.



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